I sit in a dark, musty room, the smell of damp penetrating my right to my bone.
the familiar shadows and lighting comforts me as I sit in the chair, staring into the mirror
The distant screams from far below are all too loud, but the scrape of metal on stone is worse.
I can hear my favourite song playing, and the crunch of a car pulling up on the driveway
I stare out the tiny hole in the wall above, focusing on the feet scurrying around in an attempt to ignore the bloodstains on the floor.
one last time I gaze at the familiar room, which has been mine forever, and will be no more
The key scrapes in the lock and the gate sqeaks open.
my mum knocks on the door before popping her head around
It's time
Roughly, I am forced up and one set of shackles replaced with another.
she guides me out of the room, crying already.
Reaching the door to the world, a quiet warning is uttered before I am forced out into the bright sunlight.
mum shouts for my dad and together we climb into the car, on our way at last.
I haven't left that cell in 16 years.
My time in that house is over- now I'm 25.
Stumbling over the cobbles in the glare I was so unused to, I barely noticed the shouts from the crowd which had gathered.
Everyone cheered as I got out, but they sounded muffled, entirely unreal.
The block on which I placed my head was well bloodied, stained brown from years of use.
The aisle was smooth, worn by all those who came before me.
I paid my toll and the axeman said something to the crowd- I couldn't think because all I could see was a well dressed woman standing where my daughter said she'd be.
He stood there beside me, as did the priest in his ceremonial robe.
I realised that was my daughter- not the eleven year old I remembered, but a twenty seven year old with her own family.
And so I am passed from my father to my spouse.
I opened my mouth to call out to her, an-
"I do."
**I woke in a dead sweat, convinced that one must be true.
Just a thought i had based on anticipation of an event- unlike the two sould here i don't know wether it will be good or bad. I picture a weakened man in his forties, aged by his experiences as a prisoner in Tudor England (although beheading was reserved for the nobility i felt that it was the only path for this man). The other is a young bride from a traditional family, just before the ceremony begins.